Sam Johnson and the sorcerer's beverage
by Impure-fang
Summary: Similar to the sorcerers' stone, but based out of America, different challenges await our hero, and can it be true? Harry potter, the dark side… what could have happened? Read to find out, and review    Based in 2071


Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to the harry potter universe, nor the general story plot, the author of harry potter does.

A/N: Give me reviews please? I need them to stay alive, they are my nourishment! No? darn T^T

Mr. and Mrs. Smith were perfectly happy to tell you, that they were perfect in every way imaginable. They were the last people in the world, who you would suspect of doing something strange; because they just did not participate in such inanity behaviors, ever.

Mr. Smith was the manager at the hard ware company House-Mart, where they sold everything from drills to soda, nails to bananas'. He was a small wiry man, with the face of a rodent, his nose sticking out about 4 inches from his face.

Mrs. Smith was tall but fat, with long curly brown hair. She had a long neck, that the neighborhood children called a "giraffe neck" when she wasn't paying attention. This helped her greatly, because she was constantly peering over the fence in to the back-yard of the neighbors.

The Smiths had a boy named Ralf, and in their opinion, there was no finer boy on the planet. The Smiths had everything that they could possibly want, accept one thing; a secret… a very deadly secret, that would make them die of embarrassment if anyone ever found out…

They did not think they could bare it if anyone found out about the Johnson's. Mrs. Johnson was Mrs. Smith's sister; but they had not seen each other in nearly a decade. In fact, Mrs. Smith pretended that she did not have a sister; because her sister and her horribly worthless husband were as abnormal as they could possibly get, nothing like the dear old Smiths.

The Smiths shuttered when imagining what the neighbors would say, if the Johnsons suddenly appeared outside their house, standing in the middle of the street. The Smiths knew that the Johnsons had a young son as well, two years younger than their own; however they had never laid eyes upon the boy.

This boy was another good reason to keep the Johnsons' away; they did not want Ralf to be brought up around this boy! When Mr. and Mrs. Smith woke up on the dreadfully boring and over caste Wednesday, when our story starts; there was no sign that abnormal and mysterious things were happening all over America.

Mr. smith was singing Sweet home Alabama, as he began to get dressed; picking out the standard blue shirt for the house-mart, the black slacks that he loved so very much, and a drab looking hat that said "Thank you for shopping at house-Mart." Mrs. Smith was chattering away on the phone, gossiping like usual about the Jones, as she shoved her over Weight toddler Ralf in to the high chair.

Neither of them noticed the small grey owl that flew passed the window. At 8:15 a.m... Mr. Smith picked up his employee ID badge, pecked Mrs. Smith on the cheek, tried to kiss Ralf on the head, instead face planting in his oat meal; because Ralf was thrashing around, screaming his little head off.

"Little monster!" snickered Mr. Smith as he strolled out of their home. He got in to his Toyota Supra, flipped it in to reverse, and backed out of the drive-way.

It was on the corner of the street, when he first noticed something rather strange; a squirrel holding a GPS. For a moment Mr. Smith did not realize what he had witnessed; then he whipped his head sideways, nearly wrecking his vehicle in the process to look again. There was a striped squirrel standing on the corner of Linden Avenue, but no GPS in site. What could he have been thinking of?

It must have been an illusion. Mr. Smith blinked, as he stared intently at the squirrel; it stared back just as firmly. As Mr. Smith drove around the corner, he kept an eye on the squirrel in his rear-view mirror. It was now reading the sign; no, looking at the sign. Squirrels couldn't use GPS's or read signs.

Mr. Smith gave himself a little shake, and put the pesky squirrel out of his mind. As he drove towards work, he thought about nothing except the lunch his wife had packed, a nice juicy stake, with her special sauce she put on it. Just thinking about it made his mouth water. However, on the edge of town, the thought of his lunch was driven from his mind by something else.

As he sat in the normal traffic jam, he noticed a lot of strangely dressed people walking around. People in cloaks. Mr. Smith could not stand those who dressed in the "Hip" way these days, if it was not from the early part of the twenty first century, he did not like it at all. Do to this; the newest generation drove him bonkers!

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering-weal, near his horn. He was tempted to honk and make rude gestures involving his middle finger on his left hand, until his gaze fell upon a group of the weirdo's standing on the corner; waiting to cross the street. They were whispering excitedly together, and fidgeting quite often. Mr. Smith was enraged to see that not all of them were young; for god's sake that man must have been older then he was, and he was wearing a bright pink cloak! The nerve of him.

Then it struck Mr. Smith that it was some silly stunt that these people were all doing, for some sort of event; that had to be it. The traffic moved on, and a few moments later Mr. Smith arrived in the house-mart's Parking lot, his mind back on his dripping stake, smothered in what was actually A-1 sauce.

Mr. Smith hardly ever paid close attention when his job carried him out-doors to help a customer. If he had been, he might have found it hard to continue doing his job correctly that morning. He did not see the pigeons swooping passed, though those down in the street did; they pointed, pulling out cell-phones and cameras' to capture the phenomenon on film for later debate. None of them had ever seen so many pigeons in one area, in their pathetically short life times.

Mr. Smith however, had a perfectly pigeon free morning, though his car did not; covered in droppings it would probably take him a life time to clean the thing. Mr. Smith happened to separate three different fist fights over items, he managed to actually sell the T.V. that no one had been able to; he was in a very good mood. Until he decided he would go to his car to eat lunch that day.

He had forgotten about the strangely dressed people until he passed a group of them on his way to the car. He eyed them coolly as he passed he did not know why, but they made him uncomfortable. This group was murmuring excitedly as well, and it was obvious this time that they weren't dressed for fun, none of them were dressed alike.

That was when he arrived at his car. His mouth fell open, his face draining of color. He had left his window cracked a bit; and his car was literally covered in bird dung. He opened the nearly sealed door, looking inside with a horrible feeling in his gut. All over his seats; both back and front were piles of bird crap. He opened his trunk, after slamming his doors; extracted his lunch and got his hands covered in bird feces.

On his way back to the building, he stomped by a group of the weirdly dressed strangers, and caught a few words.

"The Johnson's, that's right; that's what I heard."

"Yes, their son, Sam…"

Mr. Smith stopped dead in his tracks, as fear flooded his thoughts. He looked back at the group, as if to say something to them; but he seemed to think better of it, continuing on his marry way.

When he arrived back inside, he made his way strait to the pay phone. He with-drew twenty-five cents, to use in the phone but changed his mind. He thought about it for a bit, and came to the conclusion that there were a lot of people named Johnson across America, and who was to say their sons name was Sam. For all he knew, their son's name was Jeff, or Colby; after all he had never even seen the boy.

He had not functioned well for the rest of the afternoon, even getting yelled at by the head of the house-Mart for being unnecessarily rude to a customer. When he got off work, the fear still flooded threw out his body. He was so engrossed in his thoughts; he walked right in to someone as he was leaving; because as you well know, when a door reads "Exit" human nature automatically thinks "Enter."

"Sorry…" he grunted, as the old man on crutches nearly fell on his butt. It was a few seconds before Mr. Smith realized the man was wearing an azure cloak. He did not seem to be at all upset about being nearly pile-driven in to the ground; on the contrary he spoke in a high soprano that turned the heads of everyone walking by. "Do not be sorry dude, nothing could make me depressed on a wonderful day like this one; be happy, the infamous pretender has gone at last!"

"Even inbreed muggles like you should be partying it up, on a day like today!" and the old man attempted to hug Mr. Smith. Of cores he failed miserably, as mentioned the old fellow was using crutches, so the second he tried to hug Mr. Smith, he collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony; however smiling as if he had won the lottery the hole time. Mr. Smith looked down, in startlement, before stepping over the elderly man, and returning to his bird crap covered car.

He set off towards home, wondering who on earth this "Infamous pretender" could possibly be, and preying to the lord that this was all a huge miss understanding.

As he pulled in to his drive way, the first thing that he noticed was the damnable squirrel from that morning. It was now perched upon the gate, that led to his back-yard. He was positive it was the same one, only because of the strange stripes running down its' hide.

"Shoo!" roared Mr. Smith. The squirrel only leaned its head to one side, staring interestedly in Mr. Smith's general direction. Was this normal squirrel behavior? Mr. Smith thought confusedly.

Attempting to stabilize his mind, Mr. Smith stomped threw his front door. He was still determined not to tell his wife anything of the strange things that had been happening all day.

Mrs. Smith had a perfectly normal day. She told him over dinner about Mrs. Next doors problems, and how Ralf had learned a new word, "won't!"

Mr. Smith attempted to act normally. When Ralf had been put to bed, he went to the living room and flipped on the television; catching the last report on Fox news.

"And finally, the worlds bird-watchers have reported, that birds all over the world have been acting abnormally. Under normal circumstances, birds avoid people at all times, but it seems that random groups of birds have been landing on people's shoulders, cars, homes, and work places! Experts have been unable to explain what is causing the birds to be doing this…" the news caster winked roguishly. "Most mysterious, and now over to Trisha Wong for the weather. Going to be any more showers of bird poop Trish?"

"Well James, I don't know but it isn't only the birds who have been acting strangely today! Viewers have been calling in, reporting that instead of the rain shower I promised, they have got a down poor of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating the forth early this year huh folks?"

Mr. Smith sat speechless, pinned to the back of his chair. People firing fireworks all over America? Birds changing their migration patterns? Strange people in cloaks all over the place… and a whisper… a whisper about the Johnsons…

Mrs. Smith came in to the living room, carrying two cans of beer. It was no good. He would have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously, "err Haley; you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he suspected, Mrs. Smith looked shocked and angry. After all, they both normally pretended that she did not have a sister. "No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Smith mumbled. "Owls, fireworks, and a lot of funny looking people around town…"

"So!" snapped Mrs. Smith.

"Well… I just thought… maybe... maybe it had something to do with her type of people…"

Mrs. Smith cracked the tab on her beer, and took a long swig. Mr. Smith wondered if he dare tell her that he heard the name Johnson… instead he said, "Their son, he would be about one year now?"

"I suppose so…" said Mrs. Smith stiffly.

"What's his name again? Stanley isn't it?"

"Sam, nasty common name if you ask me…"

"Oh yes…" replied Mr. Smith, his stomach falling out of his body. "Yes, I quite agree…" He did not say anything else about the Johnsons as they went to bed.

Wile Mrs. Smith was cleaning up for bed; Mr. Smith crept in to the hall way, and to the window at the front of the house. Peering out, in to the front yard, he noticed that the squirrel was still there. It was staring down Linden Avenue, as if it was waiting for something, or something. Was he imaginings things? Could any of this have anything to do with… with the Johnsons? If it did, if it got out… if anyone found out they were related to the type of people like… he did not think he would be able to bare it…

The smiths got in to their bed, Mrs. Smith fell asleep rather quickly; however Mr. Smith lay awake unable to sleep do to the activity within his head. His last, comforting thought before he drifted in to the land of dreams was, if the Johnson's were involved in any way, there was no need for them to involve him, and his family.

The Johnson's new very well what the smiths thought of them, and there kind. He could not see how he and Haley could get involved with anything going on. He yawned and rolled over. He and his wife were safe, or so he assumed.

Mr. Smith may have been drifting to sleep, but the squirrel was perfectly alert, gazing intently down the street. It did not so much as flinch as a car alarm went off down the road or a gunshot seem to explode near its ear. In fact, it was nearly midnight before it changed positions. A man appeared on the corner, so silently out of the shadows you would have thought he was a shadow himself. The squirrels left paw twitched slightly, as if it was preparing to spring as its eyes narrowed. Nothing like this man had ever been seen in a district like this one, let alone on a street called Linden. He was short, fat, and very old; or so it seemed from the lack of hair, and the multiple wrinkles he supported.

He was wearing long robes, a lime green cloak, and flat sandals. His grey eyes were light, but sparkling behind two monocles and his nose was crooked as if someone had punched him when he was younger.

This man's name was Sean Marten. Sean marten seemed not to notice, nor care that he had just arrived in a street where he was unwelcome at all, from the tippy top of his bald head, to his worn sols of his sandals. He was busy fiddling in a pocket of his cloak, looking for something… but he seemed to feel something watching him. His gaze shot up, alighting upon the squirrel. For some reason, the sight of the squirrel made him grin. "I should have known…"

He found what he was looking for, in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a toy soldier, from 1930. He twisted the knob on its back, and let it unwind. It ticked and spun, and when it was done; the lights flickered out all up and down the streets. If anyone was to gaze out now, they would not be able to see a single thing that happened beneath their little noses. Marten put the toy back in his pocket and strolled over to where the squirrel was perched. He did not look at it, but after a few seconds he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you, professor Westfall." He turned to face the squirrel, smiling; however it was gone. In its place, sitting atop the fence was a stern looking man, maybe four feet nine inches tall. He too was wearing a cloak, a violet one. His black hair fell around his face messily. He looked as if he had been up all night for an entire week.

"How did you know it was I?" he asked, a slight accent coming through; perhaps French?

"My dear teacher, I have never seen a squirrel look so grumpy."

"You would be grumpy as well if you sat on a fence all day, when you could have been celebrating." Growled Mr. Westfall barely containing the amount of respect that he owed Sean. "I must have passed a dozen parties on the way here, and did not even stop at one…" William sounded regretful.

"Oh yeah… everyone is partying it up," he growled; "you think that they would be a little more careful, but no; even the Muggles noticed something has happened… it was on their news!" he gesticulated in the direction of the Smiths' house. "I heard it! Flocks of owls, people forgetting when their ancestors gained independence…"

"Well, they're not completely stupid, they were bound to notice something… fireworks down in Phoenix… I bet that was garret barthall… he never had much sense…"

"You can't blame them" said marten gently. "We have had precious little to celebrate for eleven long years…"

"Yes yes, I know that." Said Mr. Westfall angrily. "But that's no reason to lose our heads, and suddenly become clumsy…" he looked pointedly at Sean, waiting for him to say something. He did not, so he went on.

"A delightful thing it would be, on the day the pretender disappeared, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he has really disappeared huh marten?"

"It certainly seems like it." Sean remarked; "we have much to be thankful for this year… would you care for a lemon head?"

"A what?"

"A lemon head. They are a type of muggle sweet I am fond of."

"No, I shall pass." Retorted westfall rather abruptly. The look on his face was a mixture of incredulity, and discussed. It was obvious what he thought of Muggle candy, and the timing of the offer.

"As I say, even if the pretender has gone…"

"My dear teacher, as your self can't call him by his name? For eleven years of hearing this "The infamous pretender" nonsense, I have been trying to get people to use his real name… Potter." Westfall flinched, nearly toppling off the fence. "It all gets confusing when we call him the infamous pretender… I never saw the issue of calling harry by his name…"

"I know you haven't," responded Mr. Westfall, sounding both exasperated and admiring. "But your different… everyone knows, you were one of the few people that the infamous… oh alright potter was even a little wary of."

"You speak far too highly of me," Marten said quietly. "Harry Potter had powers that I will never have."

"Only because you are too noble to ever use them."

"It's lucky it's dark… I haven't blushed so much sense Georgia told me she liked my shoes…" westfall shot a venomous glance at Marten.

"The owls are nothing compared to the rumors that are getting around. You know what everyone is saying? About why he has disappeared. About what finally stopped him?" it seemed that William had reached the point of what was making him the most anxious, what he really wanted to discuss; do to the fact he fixed Marten with a piercing gaze. It was plain, that what everyone was saying; he was having none of it. He would never believe it unless Marten said it was no lie. Marten was unwrapping another lemon head, and did not answer.

"What they are saying, is potter turned up in Simi Valley; he went to find the Johnson's. The rumor is that heather and Michael Johnson are… that... that they are dead…"

Marten bowed his head in grief. Westfall's mouth fell open, in surprise. "Michael and heather… I can't believe… I didn't want to believe… oh Sean!" Marten reached out, helping William off the fence and lowering him to the ground and patted his back.

"I know, I know…" he said, his tone heavy. Westfalls voice trembled as he continued.

"That's not all… they are saying he tried to kill the Johnsons son, Samuel; but he couldn't… he could not kill that little boy, no one knows why, or how… but they are saying that potters spell made him disappear… it's like what happened with Tom riddle seventy years ago…"

Marten nodded slowly. "It's… its true?" Balled westfall. "After all he has done, all he has killed, all the dreams he ruined… he couldn't kill a little boy?" it's just astounding, after all that, what actually stopped him… but how?"

"The British have a few guesses, but… we have yet to figure that out…" Marten fixed westfall with a piercing look as he continued. "We may never know however…"

Westfall pulled out a spotted peace of tissue paper that had already been used one too many times. He blew his nose violently. Marten sniffed softly, as he glanced at the digital watch on his wrist. It was very odd however; it had no numbers; just buttons, and a screen that showed pictures of twelve different planets. It must have maid sense to Marten though, because after a moment of studying it, he let his hand dropped and said, "Eric is late."

"I suppose it was he who told you I would be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Mr. Westfall. "And I won't suppose you will tell me why you chose this location to be appearing, by any instance?"

"I have come to bring Sam to his aunt and uncle."

"They are the only family he has left now."

"You don't… you can't mean the people who live here!" William spun as he cried out, pointing at the building where the smith's house was.

"Marten… you can't. I have been watching them all day! You could not find two people who are less like us in all of America! And they have this son, who was kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming about something called reaces pieces. Sam Johnson come to live here?"

"It is the best place for him." Marten's voice was firm, brooking little argument. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he is older. I have written them a letter."

"A letter?" William said as he sat back on the fence. "Really Marten, you think you can explain this all in a letter? These people" William waved at the house "Will never understand him. He will be famous, a legend… just like potter was, and look what happened with potter when we gave him to live with…"

"That is enough!" Marten's voice thundered as he cut Westfall off. "You don't seem to understand, Potter was fine, till he was forty, and his oldest child was in their third year at Hogwarts. Potter was a perfect student, when raised by muggles. Now quit arguing."

Westfalls mouth had fallen open, due to the fact he was completely startled by the tone of Sean Martens voice. He nodded, completely speechless. Suddenly, a thought popped in his head. "How is the boy getting here?"

"That is why we are waiting for Eric."

"You think it is wise to trust Eric with such an important task?"

"I would trust Eric with my life." Said Marten.

"I am not saying that his heart is in the wrong place, but you cannot say he isn't clumsy." Said westfall indignantly.

"He does tend to… what was that?"

A low rumbling sound broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder, as they looked around them for headlights. The roar reached its' peak, as a monster truck slammed in to the ground, only five feet from the startled pair.

If the monster truck was gigantic, it was nothing compared to the man sitting atop it. He was easily twice as tall as the tallest man living, and three times more muscular. He looked much too large to exist, with blond hair that flipped up at the front, the ends brushing his shoulders. His hands, the size of lions, his feet, in combat boots the size of small cars. In his giant arms, he held a bundle of blankets. It looked to be an ant, in his humongous hands.

"Eric!" marten yelled over the sound of the engine, he sounded relieved, though a bit frantic. Eric glanced down, then back up and smiled sheepishly. He turned the monster truck off. "At last and where did you get the… um… truck?"

"Barrowed it Mr. Marten." Eric rumbled as he slid off the side of the truck, dropping to the ground. "Yung Jamey Taylor lent it to me. I've got him sir"

"No problems, were there?"

"No, their house was nearly destroyed, but I got him out before the Muggle cops showed up, to investigate the damage. He fell asleep as we were flying over Vagus."

Marten and westfall bent over the bundle of blankets in Eric's grasp. Inside, was a baby boy, fast asleep? Under a puff of brown hair, on his forehead they could see a strange cut in the shape of an ice-cream cone.

"Is that ware…" whispered westfall.

"Yes" whispered marten. "He will have that scar forever, like potter did with the lightning bolt…

"Couldn't you do something about it Marten?"

"Even if I could, I would not. Scars can come in handy. I have one above my left knee that is a perfect map of the sub-way tunnels in New York. Well, give him here; we better get this over with."

Marten took the boy in to his arms, and turned towards the smith's house. "Could I… could I say good bye to him?" asked Eric, his voice trembling slightly as if he was about to start crying. He bent his head over the boy, his hair falling like a halo around him. He gave him a kiss on his forehead, just beside the mark. Then, suddenly without warning Eric let out a great bellow that sounded like a roar from a hunting panther.

"Shhhhhh" hissed westfall "You will awaken every damn muggle in the area."

"s-s-sorry" sobbed Eric, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I just c-c-can't stand it, Michael and heather dead and poor old Sam being forced to go off and live with muggles…"

"Yes, yes it is all very sad, but if you don't shut up, we won't have a choice where Sam grows up, and he will be forced to live with people who don't know of our world at all; because we will all be in jail." William patted Eric's lower leg, because that was all he could reach on him, as marten walked to the front door, and gently lowered Sam's basket on to the porch. He removed an envelope from his cloak, and tucked it under Samuel's head, and returned to the others.

For a full minute, they just sat and looked at the bundle of blankets, Eric shaking, William sniffing, and even the light of mischievous that normally filled Sean's eyes had seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Marten "That's that. We have no business staying here. We may as well go, and join the parties; I've heard Billy is throwing an amazing one over in Tucson."

"Yeah... I will join you, just gotta take poor old Jamey back his truck first. See yawl in a bit, Mr. Westfall, Mr. Marten." Wiping his nose again on his sleeve, Eric jumped up in to the monster truck, roaring back up in to the sky.

"I will join you in a bit; I got to take care of one last thing alright William?" Marten moved off, without waiting for a response, pulling the toy back out of his pocket; spinning the knob, and releasing the light back in to the lamps. He could just barely see the bundle on the porch from where he stood. "Good luck Samuel" he murmured softly before disappearing.

A breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees, as it blew against the silent house on Linden Avenue. One would think nothing peculiars would ever happen in this home, because the inhabitance was as perfectly normal as they could possibly be.

Sam Turned over in his sleep, his cheek resting against the letter Marten had left for the smiths. He slept on, not knowing that he was soon to be famous, not knowing that in a few hours he was going to be woken up by Mrs. Smith's scream as she went to check the mail, or that he would spend the next few weeks being pinched and poked by his cousin Ralf. He couldn't possibly know that people all over the world were praying, and praising the name of Samuel Johnson, the boy that lived.


End file.
